Whiskey Burn
by The Lady Fair
Summary: Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight times he had failed to get his wife pregnant. Twenty-eight times he had sat in that waiting room praying to anyone who would listen that the results would be negative. Twenty-seven times he had drunk away the guilt that came with that prayer. Tonight would make it twenty-eight.


**.**

 **The Burn**

 **.**

The stack of papers in front of him bore bad news. Every month, on the third Saturday, Neville and Hannah would head over to the local clinic for the test. Hannah promised him that it was painless, but each time she came out of the little room, sadness filled her eyes. He remembered when they had started trying, how hopeful and excited she had been as they waited for the test results. Two years, three months and twenty one days later Neville found it hard to even smile at his young wife as she came to sit next to him. They always knew what the nurse would say. She had been saying the same thing for eight months, since she had been hired on at the clinic. Her first ever patients had been the Longbottoms. To Hannah the test might have been painless but the truth was not.

Neville grasped the twenty-seven pieces of parchment harder as the worn out nurse approached. She had stopped smiling at them three months ago, her face bearing an expression of grim acceptance as she passed them the test results. The paper bore an identical message to the other twenty-seven – the only difference being the date.

Hannah was not pregnant.

Accepting the paper and bidding a solemn farewell to the young nurse, Neville escorted Hannah out of the waiting room. Ten months ago she had stopped crying. He nestled her close under his arm, his throat already yearning for the familiar burning sensation that would make the pain go away. As the couple hustled out to the apparition point, Neville felt Hannah sigh. That was her only response nowadays.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight times he had failed to get his wife pregnant. Twenty-eight times he had sat in that waiting room praying to anyone who would listen that the results would be negative. Twenty-seven times he had drunk away the guilt that came with that prayer. Tonight would make it twenty-eight.

With a gut-twisting, split-second burst of magic the Longbottoms arrived at their home. The Leaky Cauldron had been cared for by Hannah's family for over five generations and it had a nice suite on the main level where they lived. Neville gave his wife a perfunctory kiss on the head before making his way to the bar, too ashamed of himself to even look at her as she retired to their rooms.

The first shot went down like a bucket of nails. Tearing and ripping at his throat and stomach as a reminder that this wasn't the way to handle things. By the third shot the whiskey had given up on its lesson, going down smoothly to hit his gut with a comforting burn. Neville noticed a couple of customers trickling in and quietly tucked the bottle away. Work always came before whiskey.

Six hours later the Leaky Cauldron was packed. Hannah had come back out to serve up her famous dragon chili and two of the hired barmaids were tending to those interested in something a little stronger. Somewhere in the corner a band of witches pounded away at their instruments – the music almost indiscernible underneath the never ending buzz of conversation. The bar was full, every stool filled all the way down to corner where the bar met the wall. That stool was occupied by the Leaky Cauldron's melancholy proprietor as he took a well deserved break. His fist curled around a tumbler.

Neville was two sheets to the wind and working hard to get that third sheet sailing. Oblivious to the chaos around him he sipped his fire whiskey and cursed himself.

Hannah wanted children. Had told him that before they got married. Nonetheless he had pursued her and won her over, knowing full well that he would never provide her with a bundle of joy. He was selfish. He punctuated the thought with another sip of whiskey, rolling the liquid around on his tongue until his stomach settled down enough to accept it. And she didn't deserve that. Leaning into the corner where the worn wooden bar met the wall, Neville searched the crowd for his wife.

She was flitting between tables, serving up her chili. A large tray was perched on her hip, where a baby should have been, and she smiled at the customers in a way that never reached her eyes. Neville dredged up an old mental picture of their wedding day. When those caramel eyes had lit up and shined brightly. She was so hopeful, so eager to start their lives together. He scowled and took another sip. He had ruined that hope.

The stool next to him became vacant and was quickly filled. Neville never paid much mind to those that sat at the bar. They were sorry souls looking for enough alcohol to give them a good hangover–one that would hurt worse than the truth. They were just like him. He turned back toward the bar and reached over the counter for the bottle.

A hand on his forearm stopped him. With a snarl that would never have shown up on his face in his school years, Neville turned to face the person next to him.

"Let go."

The solemn face of Harry Potter met his glare, "Nice to see you too, Neville."

Wrenching his arm away from his old friend, Neville made to stand up... tripping over his own feet and winding up with Harry's hand back around his forearm. His friend steadied him before guiding him back to the stool. Glaring at Harry, Neville reached for his tumbler, wrapping his fingers around it as his face burned red. He pretended it wasn't the drunkenness that made him blush.

"I don't want your help, Harry. Go home to Ginny and the kids."

Harry shook his head, passing Neville one of the two Butterbeers he had ordered. "They're off to Egypt with the family. I've got a night to myself."

"Lucky for you," Neville couldn't quite stop the bitterness that seeped into that statement.

Harry regarded the comment with a wry smile, tucking into his Butterbeer and waiting for Neville to do the same. They sat like that for a while, sipping on their drinks and letting their thoughts wander.

"You'd be a good father you know."

Neville started, his face showing surprise and anger as he turned to face Harry. "What? How'd you know?"

Harry shrugged, signaling the barmaid for another round, "Ginny told me about the tests. She said Hannah's starting to think that it'll never happen. That she only keeps trying because she doesn't want to disappoint you."

Neville's throat clenched, his eyes boring into the scar on Harry's forehead as he fought back tears. He had hurt her, had ruined her dreams, and she blamed herself. Fighting against the liquid emotions running through him, Neville cleared his throat. Harry didn't give him the chance to respond.

"I didn't tell Ginny that you gave up years ago. That you are too afraid you might fail to even try." Harry's eyes bored into Neville, exposing his very soul – his words touching a nerve that had been frayed since childhood, "If I had she would have told Hannah. I couldn't do that to you two."

"Damn you."

Again Harry shrugged, turning toward the bar and wrapping both of his hands around his pint. Neville glared at him for a while, astonished that Harry had him so well pegged and angry he had said the words out loud. Neville had always worried that he wouldn't be a good father, had decided before he ever left Hogwarts that he wasn't cut out to have kids. He had failed at so much in life, what if he failed his child too? After a few minutes he too turned away, draining the remainder of his Butterbeer at the protest of his stomach. He took a deep breath to quell the queasiness and stood up.

"Tell Ginny and the kids hello for me."

Harry nodded, waiting until Neville had started walking away to speak, "You would be a great father, Neville. Having your dad around wouldn't have changed that fact. If you doubt yourself you only have to look at your wife. Hannah's going to be a great mom."

Neville paused in his steps, zoning in on his wife as she bent over to serve a little girl. The child smiled and laughed at something Hannah said and his heart broke just a little. His wife smiled back at the little girl, her eyes lighting up as she bent down to help cut up her food. Twenty-eight times Neville Longbottom had prayed not to have a child. It took one smile and one hell of a friend to make him realize he didn't want to make that number twenty-nine.


End file.
